


Vodka Confessions

by xxwrote_my_way_outxx



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Danatole, Fluff, Gay, Internalized Homophobia, It's A Complicated Russian Romance, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Probably will be smut at some point, care taking, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:30:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxwrote_my_way_outxx/pseuds/xxwrote_my_way_outxx
Summary: Dolokhov could tell that tonight that Anatole had gotten drunk off of wine instead of vodka because he was a sexual, emotional, slurring mess. Even getting Anatole home was more effort than what it was worth.





	1. The Drunk Speaks Sober Words

Dolokhov could tell that tonight that Anatole had gotten drunk off of wine instead of vodka because he was a sexual, emotional, slurring mess. Even getting Anatole home was more effort than what it was worth. The blonde kept trying to touch him and kiss him, and tried to say things that would probably be romantic...if Anatole knew what romance was, and could actually talk instead of ramble senselessly. 

Dolokhov sometimes wondered what the difference between drunk and sober Anatole was when they were both irrational and sexual deviants. 

Surprisingly, Dolokhov was completely sober that night save for the slight buzz of alcohol from earlier that day that made his head feel a bit more stable than when he wasn’t drinking. Dolokhov drank to erase bad memories. Anatole drank to give Dolokhov good memories and escape his own actions. 

When they got back to house, Anatole insisted that they sat on the couch. It wasn’t like there was anything to do at home, especially when it was reaching midnight and there was hardly any alcohol in the house. The gruff man set the skinny blonde thing on the couch and headed over to the cabinet in search of anything to satiate himself. Thankfully he found a bottle of vodka. It only had a shot or two worth of content left in it, but it was enough to relieve him of the bound to be deluge of words that would spill from Anatole’s lips. Anatole talked as much as he slept around: a lot. 

When Dolokhov came back to the room, he could already hear Anatole leisurely prattling on about the bear incident that had occurred years before, but the way that he described it made Dolokhov seem like some sort of amazing hero, and the man nearly scoffed at it. Anatole really did seem to idolize him no matter what he did, even when they were younger. It was almost ridiculous. 

The Kuragin prince was lounging leisurely, his legs hanging off the side over the armrest of the loveseat, and the rest of him was taking up almost the whole rest of the area. Fedya rolled his eyes, bemused, as he lifted the prince’s head up for a moment and then sat down, allowing the drunken mess to rest his head in his lap instead, which Anatole had to admit was a lot more comfortable and welcoming than the couch cushions. 

“Why didn’t’ou get anything to drink at th’club?” Anatole slurred lazily, staring up at Dolokhov as he watched the older man take a swig from the vodka bottle. He had child-like curiosity in his eyes, and he puffed out his bottom lip just as one would. 

“I didn’t feel like drinking tonight.” Dolokhov calmly explained as he took another swig. 

“But’ou’re drinking now.” 

“That’s because if you’re drunk, I might as well be drunk, too.” 

“Don’t like when’ya drink, Fedya.” Anatole then giggled when he noticed that it rhymed, his tipsy haze finding it amusing and clever. His face then contorted back to more serious face, “Really don’t, though.”  
Dolokhov scowled softly when Anatole criticized his drinking, as if Anatole had a reason to drink. Why would the Kuragin care if he got drunk? Everyone here drank for some reason, and Dolokhov had his own reasons, which felt much more justified than whatever Anatole’s reasoning could be. 

“And why is that?” 

Anatole tiredly brought a hand up and pressed it against Dolokhov’s face, squishing his cheek slightly because he couldn’t properly caress it, and Dolokhov grew more irritable by the minute.

“’Cause I don’t like seeing you’pset.” He pursed his lips in confusion, “When ya drink it’s ‘cause you’re sad, and I want you to be happy.” Anatole couldn’t think of a more flowery or eloquent way to say it, and it ended up sounded forced, which wasn’t his intention but that was what Dolokhov interpreted it as. 

“Everyone is upset.” He grabbed Anatole’s hand and threw it off of his cheek in an annoyed fashion. Why did Anatole have to pretend like he cared about him? He took the last swig of alcohol and looked back down at Anatole, who looked offended and hurt that his hand was thrown off. “Me being upset does not make me special, and it does not make you special, either.” 

“I think you are very spe…very special.” Anatole said, yawning halfway through his statement. Anatole was cute when he drank wine. If only Anatole could express himself when he wasn’t drinking. If only alcohol didn’t bring out his personality, and if only when he drank it didn’t irritate Dolokhov as much. 

“Don’t talk nonsense.” Dolokhov muttered as he placed the glass bottle of vodka on the wooden floor near his foot, watching as Anatole squirmed a bit as he bent over him for a brief second. “You would never say something like that when you are sober, do not say it when you’re drunk.” It would save Dolokhov the hurt of knowing that Anatole would never persuade him or treat him kindly in public when he was sober, and would instead use him to get dances with pretty French actresses instead of asking him to dance.  
What frustrated Dolokhov the most was when Anatole would croon and flirt with him when they were both drunk, and they’d sometimes end up in bed together. Dolokhov could offer the world to Anatole, and Anatole would take it and walk away and give it to somebody else without thinking twice. Because Dolokhov always ended up being an option on the back burner, and was only stirred and tended to when Anatole had enough alcohol in him to care. He hated playing this game with him. He knew that he personally deserved better than this, but he loved Anatole too much that when Anatole offered him any form of affection, he usually devoured it whole as a dog would any treat. 

“But’you are very special to me, Fedya.” He frowned as he tried to bring his hand back up to touch Dolokhov’s cheek, but it was slapped away. “If y’could only know how I felt..” He scowled at Fedya.  
How Anatole felt? Dolokhov should really know how he felt? The anger continued to bubble in his gut. Anatole never knew how Dolokhov felt and he had the nerve to turn this the other way around? 

“I already know how you feel. You show me everyday what you think of me.” 

“I can’t d’that in public though, it’d be embarrassing, Fedya!” He whined. 

Dolokhov could feel a knew wrinkle carve its way into his forehead and he felt his fists clench, threatening to be raised but he controlled his fiery temper, knowing that what Anatole was probably saying was just senseless babbling. It was always senseless babbling. 

“What can you not do in public?” 

“I can’t love you in public, silly, we’re both men!” 

Love? 

Dolokhov snorted. And then he laughed an empty laugh that made Anatole confused and slide out of his lap, isolating himself in the corner of the loveseat and simply looking at him with muddled blue eyes. What had he said that was so funny?  
Dolokhov never felt more deceived or hurt in his life, it was hysterical. Anatole, love him? Anatole said dumb things when he was drunk, and of course he had to unwisely say something like this. 

Anatole Kuragin, love him? 

That was hilarious. 

“Do not toy with my heart, Anatole. That is what all of the fine women of Moscow and your other lovers are for. You do not love me. Do not patronize me with such nonsense.” He wiped his tears away from his own eyes as he continued to cackle. He needed more vodka. Or sleep. Either one would be suitable. 

And he got up and left the room and went into the bedroom, where he found a stale cup of some variety of alcohol on the nightstand and drank it before he got under the covers and laid there. 

Anatole did not come in. 

 

And Dolokhov stared out the window for hours.


	2. Baths and Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fedya?” 
> 
> He heard Anatole croak from out in the living room, though he wasn’t sure what it was about. Knowing Anatole he was probably going to want a cup of water or hot compress, something simple that he could easily do himself but always asked Dolokhov for. When Dolokhov asked why he couldn’t do it for himself, Anatole simply said that his ‘dear Fedya’ always did it better than he ever could, even if it was just a cup of water.

Dolokhov could hardly sleep that whole night, finding something about the moon and the stars calming despite the way that his heart hammered in his chest uncomfortably and the way that the stars were just a bit too bright despite how warm they made him feel. 

When he awoke in the morning, he was bleary-eyed and exhausted. His lips felt dry and his face felt stiff. Not much came to mind, starting to come down from the alcohol from the night before. However, a feeling of rejection and pain still lingered and he didn’t remember from what for a few moments until it came back to him. 

Anatole said that he loved him. 

He scoffed the same way that he did the night before as he slid out of bed and stretched his arms up over his head. He felt unreasonably cold, though he realized the blonde wasn’t sleeping next to him as he usually was. Ever since they had went to Petersburg they had been sharing a bed because Anatole insisted that Dolokhov wasn’t allowed to sleep on the couch and Dolokhov didn’t want to argue over the semantics of where they slept. He huffed and wondered where the blonde ditz was if he wasn’t in bed with him. 

Even though he was still in his underclothes, he was walking out of the bedroom, one of the quilts that they had was slung around his shoulders to keep himself warm, even if it looked childish and embarrassing being worn by the likes of an assassin. He eyed the room tiredly for a few moments before his eyes fell on Anatole, who was curled up tightly on the loveseat where they had been sitting the night before, quaking slightly from the cold.   
The fool had slept without a blanket. 

Dolokhov sighed and sat down on the loveseat next to him for a brief moment. He unraveled the blanket that he had thrown around himself and spread it on top of the blonde, watching as his shivers slowly soothed. Dolokhov himself was now cold, but something in his heart felt warmed when he saw that Anatole was safe. 

He absolutely hated the fact that Anatole made him act like a good person. 

He gently stroked one of Anatole’s cheeks with one of his war-calloused hands and pressed the faintest kiss on his forehead before he got up, not wanting to let his feelings stew any longer and decided to wander off to start a hot bath. He felt like he needed to be cleansed after last night…feeling disgusted with himself and wanting to rid himself of what Anatole’s words had done to him. 

And when the bath was boiled hot, Dolokhov got in and sighed. He didn’t feel the way that the hot water reddened his skin, or perhaps he didn’t mind it because it took his mind off of the thoughts that were plaguing him. He took the bar of his own soap that rested near Anatole’s and scrubbed down his arms. Him and Anatole had very different tastes. Anatole always wore something fragrant and flowery, which matched his very flamboyant personality, whereas Dolokhov preferred a more earthy, musky, but clean scent. Though Dolokhov had to admit, he always longed for the smell that Anatole carried, even though if someone else wore the same scent he’d want to puke at the sweetness. 

“Fedya?” 

He heard Anatole croak from out in the living room, though he wasn’t sure what it was about. Knowing Anatole he was probably going to want a cup of water or hot compress, something simple that he could easily do himself but always asked Dolokhov for. When Dolokhov asked why he couldn’t do it for himself, Anatole simply said that his ‘dear Fedya’ always did it better than he ever could, even if it was just a cup of water.   
Oh, the childish flattery. 

“What is it?” He called back as he tried to wash his hair out as quickly as possible, knowing that he was probably going to be beckoned over there any second and he lacked the heart to tell Anatole ‘no’. He hated the warm affection he felt for him, and he cursed himself again over it even though he knew that he wasn’t going to deny him. 

“Come here, please.” 

A ‘please’? That was something rare. He raised his eyebrow slightly as he washed his hair out and drained the bath. He dried himself off as quickly as possible and he slid back on his clothing. He sighed, wondering what Anatole would try to coerce him out of or to do this time around.   
He heard coughing. 

Dolokhov sighed and hurried out to the living room, seeing that Anatole hadn’t moved away from the place where he sat. The brunette made his way around the other side and saw the meek man coughing softly into his elbow and murmured, “Yes?” 

“Please sit down..” 

Dolokhov saw worry and confusion swirling in Anatole’s eyes, though saw something else..they looked muddled and a bit reddish and he frowned. He sat down as Anatole told him to and the blonde instantly curled back into his lap like he had done the night before, resting his head against the other’s leg.   
“You’re so warm…” 

Anatole felt much, much hotter than Dolokhov’s slightly redfish leg was from his bath. “Toly, you’re burning up.” 

“But I feel so cold..” He murmured back quietly before he coughed again. 

“You might have caught a fever..” He frowned as Anatole grabbed his hand and moved it onto his face, pressing it there and trying to make sure it didn’t move. 

“I don’t want a fever..” He muttered childishly in return before he stated, “And my head is killing me..”

“That’s because you drank last night.” 

“But it hurts.”

“Hangovers hurt.” 

Anatole pouted before he coughed again and Dolokhov shook his head, “Let’s get you into bed. I’ll make some tea.” He slid Anatole further into his lap and lifted him up and carried him to the bedroom. Anatole looked like a merry little child when he was carried, though he still looked…awful, in comparison to how he usually looked. He laid the other down in bed and pulled the blankets snuggly up around him, “There, just…stay there, okay? I’ll go make the tea. And some toast, so it doesn’t hurt your stomach.” Dolokhov had picked up on caretaking when he was part of the army, though when it came to Anatole it always went beyond caretaking, and it almost became motherly duty to him. 

“The blankets smell like you, Fedya..” Anatole observed almost in a surprised tone. 

“That’s because I sleep in here, Anatole. So do you.” 

“I know..it’s just..nice.”

When he turned to leave the room, he decided to take one last look around to look at Anatole to make sure he was comfortable. He blushed faintly when he saw Anatole cuddling with the blankets as if they would keep him safe. 

He found himself hoping that Anatole meant what he said when he said that he loved him. Maybe he could believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally decided where I'm going to go with this.   
> Next chapter will be up soon!   
> Feel free to comment!

**Author's Note:**

> My first Comet chapter fic?  
> Gotta see where this goes :")


End file.
